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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
66
"Mummy,
did
you
hear?
June
says
she
doesn't
want
to
go
into
the
Himmel!"
cried
April,
horror-stricken.
"Because
there's
nothing
to
play
with
there,
she
says,"
cried
May,
breathlessly;
and
then
they
added
with
one
voice,
as
though
the
subject
had
long
ago
been
threshed
out
and
settled
between
them,
"Why,
she
can
play
at
ball
there
with
all
the
Sternleins
if
she
likes!"
The
idea
of
the
June
baby
striding
across
the
firmament
and
hurling
the
stars
about
as
carelessly
as
though
they
were
tennis-balls
was
so
magnificent
that
it
sent
shivers
of
awe
through
me
as
I
read.
"But
if
you
break
all
your
dolls,"
added
April,
turning
severely
to
June,
and
eyeing
the
distorted
remains
in
her
hand,
"I
don't
think
lieber
Gott
will
let
you
in
at
all.
When
you're
big
and
have
tiny
Junes--real
live
Junes--I
think
you'll
break
them
too,
and
lieber
Gott
doesn't
love
mummies
what
breaks
their
babies."
"But
I
must
break
my
dolls,"
cried
June,
stung
into
indignation
by
what
she
evidently
regarded
as
celestial
injustice;
"lieber
Gott
made
me
that
way,
so
I
can't
help
doing
it,
can
I,
mummy?"
On
these
occasions
I
keep
my
eyes
fixed
on
my
book,
and
put
on
an
air
of
deep
abstraction;
and
indeed,
it
is
the
only
way
of
keeping
out
of
theological
disputes
in
which
I
am
invariably
worsted.
July
15th.--Yesterday,
as
it
was
a
cool
and
windy
afternoon
and
not
as
pleasant
in
my
garden
as
it
has
lately
been,
I
thought
I
would
go
into
the
village
and
see
how
my
friends
the
farm
hands
were
getting
on.
Philanthropy
is
intermittent
with
me
as
with
most
people,
only
they
do
not
say
so,
and
seize
me
like
a
cold
in
the
head
whenever
the
weather
is
chilly.
On
warm
days
my
bump
of
benevolence
melts
away
entirely,
and
grows
bigger
in
proportion
as
the
thermometer
descends.
When
the
wind
is
in
the
east
it
is
quite
a
decent
size,
and
about
January,
in
a
north-
easterly
snowstorm,
it
is
plainly
visible
to
the
most
casual
observer.
For
a
few
weeks
from
then
to
the
end
of
February
I
can
hold
up
my
head
and
look
our
parson
in
the
face,
but
during
the
summer,
if
I
see
him
coming
my
mode
of
progression
in
getting
out
of
the
way
is
described
with
perfect
accuracy
by
the
verb
"to
slink."
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